


Maybe I just wanna be yours

by Gorgeousgreymatter



Series: Always Female Stiles 'verse: I will run you like a thread [6]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AND IT'S CONSENSUAL, Alpha Derek, Always Female Stiles Stilinski, But not of the face, Cis Female Stiles Stilinski, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Female Stiles Stilinski, Fluff and Smut, Forced Masturbation, Good Alpha Derek Hale, Light Angst, Light Dom/sub, Mates Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Possessive Derek Hale, Protective Derek Hale, Rough Sex, Scott McCall (Teen Wolf) is a Failwolf, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Slapping, Stiles Stilinski is a Little Shit, Stiles Stilinski is a Tease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:15:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24676762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gorgeousgreymatter/pseuds/Gorgeousgreymatter
Summary: “What the hell are you doing?” Derek asks, wide-eyed, his own chest heaving like he's in the middle of running a marathon or something. God, she hasn't even put a hand on him yet and he's already losing it.“Thanking you,” Stiles hums, palming him through his jeans, and looking up at him like she's got all the time in the world to suck him off right here in her bedroom while pretty much everyone they know is waiting for them downstairs.“What!? – no, no, don't do that,” Derek hisses. It takes an extra couple of seconds for Derek's brain to catch up, but he's able to grab her by the wrist just as she manages to unzip him. “I'm not telling the pack about our wedding plans when you've just had my dick in your mouth, Stiles.”
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: Always Female Stiles 'verse: I will run you like a thread [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1719364
Comments: 10
Kudos: 333





	Maybe I just wanna be yours

**Author's Note:**

> Usual warnings. Safe, sane, consensual. There's not a lot of Scott love here, sorry. Also, I never explicitly stated it, but the only person who knows about the engagement is Stiles's father. So far. 
> 
> That was foreshadowing.
> 
> Thanks for supporting this series! I wanted to challenge myself to write more female POV, but Sterek is the only ship I truly care about, thus this endeavor was born. I love OG Stiles just as much if not more, just wanted to try something I hadn't done before. Plus quar inspiration hit. 
> 
> TYSM for reading c:

Maybe I just wanna be yours

If Stiles could go back in time to freshman year and tell herself that not only would she actually manage to make it through high school without getting expelled, arrested, maimed, or murdered, but that she would also be _happy (_ and engaged to an absolute smoke-show of a fiance) when she graduated, she would have laughed in her own fucking face. Kicked herself in the non-existent balls for being a big, fat fucking liar. To be fair, if she could go back, she definitely, probably would have also let it slip that werewolves were a thing. Would probably have solved a lot of problems right from the beginning. But then again, all that causality bullshit might've fucked everything up and she wouldn't have Derek.

And the thought of not having Derek makes her feel like she's got an elephant sitting on her chest.

_“Stilinski– god, I don't even know how to say that –”_

_“We just refer to her as Stiles, sir...”_

_“Stilinski, Stiles?”_

_“Stiles Stilinski”_

_“Stilinski!”_

Somebody elbows her hard in the ribs, and Stiles just about falls off her chair. Thanks to Scott's quick reflexes (she's never been so grateful for alphabetical order), he grabs her by the waist and she avoids a total face-plant as she stumbles to her feet and makes her way down the aisle to the podium. There is, unfortunately, nobody there to stop her from tripping up the stairs. Stiles is almost one hundred percent sure that she sees some of her teachers actually high-fiving each other at the real-life, visual confirmation that she will never step foot in this place again (which, _rude)._ Except maybe to, you know, go inside her werewolf fiance's creepy family vault of creepy supernatural relics or something.

At least it's finally over, she thinks, as they all get up and head out onto the lacrosse field where her father and Derek are waiting. She hadn't even wanted to go to the dumb ceremony in the first place. Couldn't have cared less about it actually, but it was important to her dad, right of passage, kodak moment and all that bull. And it had been weirdly important to Derek, who was like practically geriatric most days (“ _I'm not old, Stiles. I'm 26, jesus.”)_ so she shouldn't have been so surprised that when she suggested skipping it, he got all grumpy-faced about her not having enough _normal high school experiences_. He'd even pulled the whole _I didn't get to go to my graduation, Stiles_ thing,and it was so not cool of him to play the dead family card. But even Derek sunk to her level and played dirty sometimes. Or, a lot of the times, depending on the context, Stiles thinks to herself, blushing violently. She doesn't get a chance to really delve into the fantasy though, because she just about jumps out of her skin when strong arms come up behind her and grab her by the hips, lifting her up in the air with a truly embarrassing amount of ease.

Familiar lips and warm breath tickle her ear, and Stiles shivers, her body responding the way it always does to him, all instinct by this point. “That's what you were thinking about? _Really?”_ Derek murmurs. She doesn't even have to look at him to know that he's quirking one of those ridiculous eyebrows at her. “Is that seriously why they had to call your name like a thousand times?”

Okay, sure, he can smell what she's thinking about _now_ , but before that she'd been actually trying to be good. Sort of.

“No, I was thinking about time travel, _nosey,_ ” Stiles sticks out her tongue and tries to wriggle out of his arms. “Put me down, jerk.”

“Are you sure you don't need Derek to carry you?” Her dad's appeared with the dreaded camcorder that Stiles has been dodging all day, so she quickly covers her face.“Since walking is apparently the one class you didn't pass while you were here.”

“Hey,” Stiles says haughtily. “You're all supposed to be nice to me today. And you two should not be getting along this well. It's creepy. You're creeping me out.”

Her father rolls his eyes and Derek just laughs, setting her gently on her feet again. It's still so weird, she thinks, seeing Derek out among the so-called normal people. It's too easy to forget that Derek used to go here. Used to be a student and go to classes and do homework and not rip people's throats out with his teeth. Although, considering the wide berth everybody in the crowd seems to be giving him, he might not be blending as well as he thinks he is.

Derek appears to realize this, side-eyeing Stiles suspiciously while they walk to the parking lot, his palm a steady, comforting weight on her lower back. “Stiles, why is every single one of your classmates looking at me like I'm about to abduct you?”

“Because you're hot,” Stiles answers nonchalantly. “And I think most of them still think you're a criminal. Possibly a murderer.”

“But I'm not! At least not of anyone they would know...” Derek sounds slightly scandalized by this information, and Stiles think it's hilarious, honestly, how he could somehow go from the Big Bad Wolf with the whole devil-may-care attitude thing, to an uptight, stick-in-the-mud in like the span of a minute.

“It's okay. You're a very sexy criminal,” Stiles says, patting his arm sympathetically. “Besides,” she adds impishly. “You technically _are_ a murderer. You murder this pu–“

She doesn't even get the chance to finish her, in her own opinion, extremely hilarious joke, because Derek growls and slaps his hand over her mouth. “ _No.”_ Stiles licks his palm, so Derek unceremoniously throws her over his shoulder and carries her to the car.

“Fine, just suck all my fun. _Fun sucker_.”

The rest of the afternoon isn't that bad. Actually, it's...it's _good_. Derek takes her and her dad out to her favorite pizza place for lunch where they actually sit and eat together, almost like a real family. They look at plastic menus and share a pitcher of iced tea, and the waitress flirts with Derek and it only makes Stiles laugh, because the tips of his ears turn pink the way they do when he's embarrassed. Stiles eats a disgusting amount of pizza, and even lets her dad have a few slices while Derek eats a salad, because he's Derek and he's weird like that. Her father gives her a new laptop as a graduation present and Stiles pretends to actually believe that Derek had absolutely nothing to do with it.

It's the rest of the night that doesn't go so well.

…

“Remind me why we're doing this?”

Stiles has been pouting about this party all day, even though she was the one that had suggested it in the first place. Because when has Derek ever, ever been mistaken for a person who wants to have _parties?_ Derek looks up from the book he's reading, sprawled out on Stiles's bed while she glares at herself in the mirror.

“Because you said we had to,” he says, going back to leisurely flipping pages. “You said we had to throw the pack a graduation party. You're the one that told me to invite everybody over here. You're the one that wanted to tell everyone tonight.” Derek'd just as soon wait until after they're married to tell the pack. He'd rather not deal with any of that drama – thanks, but no thanks.

Stiles groans. “Why do you listen to me?”

“I ask myself that every day,” Derek deadpans.

Now she's glaring at him, her hands on her hips and her lip between her teeth, how she always looks when she's mad, but it never stops him from wanting to lunge forward and bite at her mouth until she forgets why she's mad at him in the first place. It doesn't hurt that she's wearing that dress she claims she'd been forced to buy the other day, with Lydia and Allison. It's green, his favorite color, and it makes Stiles's skin glow white as the moon, and he likes the way it falls against her smooth, long, pale legs. Not that he doesn't like the way she looks any other time. It just brings to mind another fond memory Derek has of the last time she'd worn a dress.

“I feel stupid in this. I _look_ stupid in this.”

“You really, really don't,” Derek answers, his voice low as he stares at her shamelessly. Stiles apparently sees something in his eyes, because she's turning back to her reflection with noticeably pinker cheeks.

“If you say so,” she murmurs, but she's smiling now. Derek watches her hungrily as her nimble fingers play with the silver chain hanging around her neck. When it's just the two of them, his ring lives on her finger where it belongs. Otherwise it dangles at the end of that chain, tucked away, a secret, in the valley between her breasts. Not after tonight, he thinks contentedly, tracking that glint of silver and moonstone. In a flash, the book lies forgotten, and he's over there, grinning into the back of Stiles's neck when she yelps in surprise when he grabs her by the hips. He trails his fingertips over her rib cage until he finds it, that ring. With a growl, he yanks it off her neck, breaking the clasp. Stiles jolts in surprise, but Derek is steady when he slips it onto her finger, letting the necklace fall carelessly to the ground at their feet.

Stiles rolls her eyes, but Derek can hear it, the quickening of her heartbeat, a familiar buzzing, fast as a hummingbird's wheedling its way into his senses. Another plus of this dress, he thinks, is how easy it is for him to pull the sleeve down just enough that he can suck a thin line of marks into her ivory shoulder and no one will be the wiser. _But he'll know_ , the wolf in him preens, pleased.

“You're lucky this covers those,” Stiles grouses, but the way her hips are bucking against him says she's hardly upset about his attentions. Her breathing is getting faster, and he meets her eyes in the mirror and sees hers have gone dark and wide, and her rosy pink lips are parted in words she wants to speak but can't, not yet.

“Hmm. Want something?” Derek asks innocently, trailing his palm up the curve of her thigh and slipping it slowly under her skirt. Stiles says nothing, but whimpers needily, leaning back against his chest with a sigh, baring the half-moon curve of her throat. His eyes fall shut and he can't do anything for a moment but breathe her in. He wonders, briefly, if she'll ever stop being so god damn intoxicating. Doubtful.

He's nuzzling behind her ear, his fingers just brushing, teasingly, at the waistband of her panties, when suddenly he goes still as a dog that's scented a rabbit. “They're here,” he whispers. Their presence, the bonds of pack that are always just hanging on the edges of his consciousness, get pulled like someone's tugging on a million tiny, little threads in his brain. It's incredibly distracting.

Stiles whines weakly. “Tell them to go away.”

Derek smirks. The doorbell rings. “Too late.”

Stiles's face is still flushed, but it wouldn't matter even if she could somehow hide the blush on her cheeks. She can't hide her scent, so when Derek finally manages to drag her down the stairs, the entire pack is waiting at the bottom with annoyingly knowing looks. The smug grins aren't that bad, but Derek sees that cold look in Scott's eyes and thinks, _yeah, that's probably gonna cause some problems later._

Jackson's looking at them both like he's scented something foul. _“_ You two smell like you just bathed in each other's ji –“

“ _Absolutely not_ ,” Lydia says shrilly, and then she's yanking Jackson into the living room by the ear. He curses but doesn't fight, which doesn't shock Derek in the slightest. In fact, Derek doesn't think he's ever related to Lydia more in that moment.

“We could still make a break for it,” Stiles whispers. He knows she doesn't really mean it, that they won't, no matter how much they might want to. Not after everything she's done to put this whole thing together, not to mention that fact that she's been baking non-stop for the past three days.

At the very least, feeding the pack will keep them from suffocating under the weight of all those lemon bars.

Derek just squeezes her hand, and they follow the group out to the backyard.

…

It's not that bad, okay. Throwing a party for the pack was relatively simple. Put enough food out in a trough and turn some music on, the thing practically ran itself. But because there's absolutely no possible way she'll be able to sit still with her nervous system running on high octane, she's flitting between groups and playing happy hostess: Erika, Isaac, and Boyd; Scott and Allison; Lydia and Jackson. She can feel it, the weight of Derek's eyes following her, and it's pretty much the only thing keeping her from freaking the fuck out.

She knows that he's waiting for her to pull the plug. Give her the chance to back out of telling them if she wants to, because it's Derek and she knows he'd throw himself into an oncoming train before he forced her to do something she legitimately didn't want to do. It was funny that way, their relationship. Big Scary Alpha succumbing to the whims of a hyperactive, 125-pound girl. This is the thought she has, hiding in the kitchen while she pretends to get more ice, and it makes her giggle out loud like an asshole.

“What are you laughing about?” Of course he's there, because Derek's favorite hobby is sneaking up behind her. God, she really should get him a bell so she doesn't accidentally die of shock one of these days.

“You,” Stiles says casually, but she feels her whole body relax into the soothing touch of his hand, a firm grip on the back of her neck.

“So, nothing new then,” Derek says dryly.

She hates how good it feels, that hold. The longer they're together, somehow she's finding it much easier to let go of those little bits of humanity she used to cling to so tightly. Now it seemed pointless, like trying to keep sand from spilling out of her hands. She wonders if after a while it won't matter at all if he never turns her, because sometimes she feels like she's halfway there already.

“Are you ready?” Derek asks, his lips barely sweeping over the surface of her skin.

Stiles groans, turning around and burying her face into his chest and closing her eyes. “They're going to be dicks about it.”

Derek's laugh is a low rumble against the crown of her head. “Jackson and Scott, probably. But do you care?”

“ _No_ ,” she says, her voice muffled into his shirt. A beat. “Maybe. I don't know.”

“We can wait,” he offers softly, and Stiles hates how nice he sounds about it, because she knows he wants it as bad as she does, and there's no way she's going to deny him this. Just because tonight she's feeling a little cowardly.

“If we do that, then the terrorists win.”

She can feel Derek rolling his eyes without _actually_ seeing him do it and if that's not true love, what is?

Still, she's not expecting it when Derek grabs her by the hand and pulls her up the stairs instead of back outside where the pack is waiting.

“Oooh, quickie?” Stiles asks hopefully, once they reach her bedroom and Derek makes her sit down on the bed.

“No,” Derek says, scowling. Spoilsport, Stiles thinks, glancing wistfully in her mirror and remembering how it was only a couple of hours ago that she was literally shaking with need in his arms in front of it. “I just wanted to give you your graduation present before you have to deal with everybody else.”

“But you already gave me a present.” Stiles cocks her head. “ _Two_ presents,” she adds, winking.

Derek rolls his eyes at her again. If she had a nickle, she thinks, smiling to herself. “ _That_ doesn't count. And the laptop was from your dad.”

“So you're still planning to die on that hill? Okay,” Stiles says, laughing. Derek huffs in obvious annoyance, but he hands her a package anyway, a small rectangle box wrapped in brown paper. She's got no idea why Derek feels the need to give her things, because it feels like he's already given her everything and more. But still... _presents_. She's not gonna say no to presents, and he knows it. He's watching her so intently while she unwraps it, carefully sliding her finger under every piece of tape so she doesn't rip any of it. It's not like it's special paper or anything, but Derek _gave_ it to her. It just feels important that way. When the last of the wrapping falls off, Stiles see that it's a book, or maybe a journal. The cover is leather, a light chocolate brown, with the familiar triskele stamped on the cover.

Stiles isn't much of a writer, but it's looks pretty, she can say that much. “Thanks, Sourwolf.”

Derek huffs again. “Open it, you goof.”

Okay, okay, jeez, Stiles thinks, before cracking the cover and smoothing it with her fingers.

It's not just a blank journal. It's a sketchbook, and it's not empty, she realizes. As she flips carefully through each page, she sees them, the faces of everyone they know, everyone _she_ knows. The sketches are so detailed, they could be photographs. Scott and Allison, Lydia, Erica, Isaac, Boyd, and her father. Even Jackson. Even _Peter_. But the last page, the last page...that's all _her_. At least, how Derek sees her, because Stiles has never looked in the mirror and seen anything resembling beautiful, but the girl in the sketch...s _he is._ He must have done it one of the many times he watched her sleep, because he's drawn her in his bed, the sheets tucked under her shoulders, her hair loose around her face, and her expression slack, calm and inordinately peaceful.

“Derek – “ Stiles starts, brushing her fingertip delicately over her own image, awestruck. “You did all these?”

“Um...yes,” Derek answers carefully. He sounds like he does whenever he's worried he's done something wrong, fucked something up with her. She can hear the nervousness in his voice. “It's – in case you get lost,” he trails off quietly.

All she can do for a minute is stare at him, and she's sure if she could see her own face, she'd be embarrassed by the moon-brained expression she's positive she's making right now. At the very least, there are definite googly eyes. _Idiot_ , she thinks fondly, but she doesn't say anything else.

Instead, Stiles just puts down the book and launches herself straight into his arms.

…

She's lucky his reflexes are so quick, otherwise he would have dropped her purely out of shock when she throws herself at him. Instead, he catches her seamlessly, her legs locking around his waist and her arms looping themselves around his neck. Derek parts his lips to ask what the hell she's doing, but he never gets the chance because Stiles's tongue is in his mouth and after that it's hard to really think about anything else.

There's that rational part of his brain that tells him to stop because an entire pack of teenage werewolves with super sensitive hearing is downstairs waiting for them. But Stiles is supernaturally good at making him not give a fuck about things like logic and reason and being on his best behavior, so he's the absolute moron deepening the kiss, digging his fingers into her thighs before crashing his way over to her desk, which rattles ominously when he slams her up against it. He sets her down and Stiles keeps him locked in the cage of her legs, crossing her ankles around his back, her breathing heated and heavy when she leans up to lick under his jawline.

“Wait, wait,” Derek gasps, shuddering under her urgent, searching mouth. “We can't do this. We can't have sex right now.”

“Fine. No sex. Something quicker,” she says. He can hear Stiles's feverish panting, and then he's watching, bemused, as she wriggles out from between his legs and falls to her knees. Her deft fingers unbuttoning his pants with singular purpose.

“What the hell are you doing?” Derek asks, wide-eyed, his own chest heaving like he's in the middle of running a marathon or something. God, she hasn't even put a hand on him yet and he's already losing it.

“ _Thanking you,”_ Stiles hums, palming him through his jeans, and looking up at him like she's got all the time in the world to suck him off right here in her bedroom while pretty much everyone they know is waiting for them downstairs.

“What!? – no, no, don't do that,” Derek hisses. It takes an extra couple of seconds for Derek's brain to catch up, but he's able to grab her by the wrist just as she manages to unzip him. “I'm not telling the pack about our wedding plans when you've just had my dick in your mouth, Stiles.”

Stiles grumbles,but she allows him to pull her up. From the way she's looking at him, Derek's pretty sure she's about to say something obstinate, stubborn, and probably sarcastic, but she doesn't get the chance because they both hear the crash from outside, in the hallway, the tinkling sound of glass breaking.

Derek only just remembers to zip up his pants as he speeds to the door and wrenches it open to see Scott standing there with blood on his hand from where he'd squeezed the cup he was holding so hard it had cracked in his fist.

He looks _murderous_.

“ _Fuck.”_

_"You're getting married?”_ Scott sputters, looking between Derek and Stiles like he's waiting for one of them to say _just kidding, gotcha_. But all they do is blink at him. There's something like recognition in his eyes that Derek doesn't like one bit.

“Derek, what the fuck – did you knock up Stiles? Did you knock up _my best friend_?” and then Scott's eyes are flashing yellow, and Derek's flash red in return, unable to quell the defensive growl building in the back of the throat. Scott takes a few steps forward, and Derek can see claws starting to sprout from the tips of his fingers.

“Please, for the love of god, stop,” Stiles says, covering her face with her hand and groaning. “Do not even with the dick measuring right now. And _no_ ,” she adds venomously, shooting daggers at Scott. “I'm not pregnant.”

Derek takes a deep breath and the red fades. He doesn't get a chance to add anything because suddenly the hallway is filled with people.

“Who's pregnant?” Isaac asks, his mouth stuffed with what Derek assumes is way more than one of Stiles's pastries.

“Stiles, I think,” Boyd whispers.

“Nobody's pregnant,” Derek growls irritably. “Stiles and I are engaged.”

“Oh, congratulations,” Isaac says, clapping Derek good-naturedly on the shoulder and beaming that smile that makes him look like the literal human equivalent of a puppy.

Somebody else cheers. He thinks it's Erica, but he can't be sure because Lydia and Jackson have somehow forced their way through the crowd of bodies until they're standing right in front of him. Lydia doesn't even acknowledge Derek, just shoves past him and grabs Stiles's hand to examine the ring on her finger with an uncomfortably calculating stare. Evidently she likes what she sees, because the smile she gives Derek is slightly less menacing than usual.

“You knocked up Stilinski? _”_ Jackson snickers, that asshole grin on his face that makes Derek (and everybody else) want to punch him. “Good luck with that.”

Everybody starts talking at once and Derek is so overwhelmed by the noise and all that damn emoting that he can't seem to follow any of it. It doesn't matter though, because suddenly Stiles screeches, furiously, and everybody goes silent as a grave.

“I AM NOT KNOCKED UP,” she shrieks. “Go ahead and take a big whiff, you stupid werewolves, because I assure you, there's nothing in there. This,” Stiles spits, gesturing at her stomach, “is one hundred percent empty, closed for business, and it's gonna stay that way for the foreseeable future, thank you. _Jesus fucking christ._ ”

“Also, it would be statistically highly unlikely. Stiles has had an IUD since tenth grade, and they have a failure rate of only roughly 0.8%,” Lydia adds, looking at them all like they're all the half-wits for not knowing that from the beginning.

“Oh my god,” Stiles says, pinching the bridge of her nose and shaking her head exasperatedly. “I have to go set myself on fire, excuse me.” Then she's shoving past all of them and going down the stairs, leaving Derek there to deal with way too many intensely personal questions.

_…_

Stiles really shouldn't be surprised that announcing her engagement, something she was actually happy about, somehow turned into the single most mortifying experience of her life, but whatever. It's fine. It's totally fine. It's totally fine that Scott won't even talk to her, won't even look at her or acknowledge her presence. He doesn't even say goodbye. It's Allison he forces to offer an excuse for their sudden departure, and it's not even a very good one.

“Sorry, Stiles,” Allison says, patting her shoulder with a smile that's much too exaggerated. “We have to go to dinner with my dad, so...anyway, congratulations, Stiles. Really, I'm happy for you.”

“Sure,” she says, shrugging. “Whatever.”

After that, Stiles spends the rest of the evening clutching at Derek's arm so hard she knows she's leaving imprints of her nails in his flesh, but she needs the touch to ground her because everybody is trying way too hard now because of Scott's temper tantrum, so it's just uncomfortable at this point.

And Lydia won't stop asking her about her wedding plans, of which there are none besides _get married._

 _“_ Do you have a date? A venue in mind? A theme? Anything!?” Lydia's expression is crazed, and she's giving them the same look Scott did earlier, like she's waiting for them to tell her she's getting punked. “Please don't say you're getting married barefoot in the middle of the woods like savages.”

Derek looks at her pointedly and Stiles knows he's thinking the exact same thing as she is: _sounds good to me._

“I'm not wearing a suit,” Derek says finally, after a very long, very awkward pause.

“Oh good,” Stiles says, smiling for the first time in at least an hour. “I'm not wearing white.”

She's pretty sure that Lydia leaves at this point just so she doesn't stroke out in Stiles's living room.

Finally, finally, the night of a thousand tortures comes to an end, and she hides in the kitchen again while Derek shoos the last of the pack out of the house: Boyd, who she can hear pleading with Erica, who keeps trying to get Derek to hug her, and Isaac with way too much food smuggled in his jacket pockets. She's not sure why he chose to do it that way because she would have at least offered to give him some Tupperware or something, but whatever. _Wolves_.

She's perched on the counter with her back resting against the cabinets when Derek reappears in the kitchen with her father in tow. He must have gotten home from his shift just as everybody was leaving. Derek goes straight to her, pressing a chaste kiss to the side of her head while her father goes straight for the refrigerator where Stiles has just stashed the leftover food that Isaac hadn't managed to steal.

“How'd it go?” her father asks around a mouthful of pasta salad.

“ _So, so good,_ ” she grunts, letting her head fall on Derek's steady shoulder. Her dad cocks an eyebrow. Stiles opens one eye and glares at him. “By the way, that was sarcasm, father.”

“I gathered that, daughter.” He looks at Derek and Stiles swears she sees them having some kind of nonverbal eyebrow conversation about her.

“Jeez, g _et a room, you two,”_ she humphs tiredly but without any venom, before sliding off the counter and giving Derek one last nuzzle against his chest. “I'm going to go upstairs and shower this entire day off my body.”

Derek stays downstairs to help clean up because he's disgustingly perfect that way. And she never ever would have thought that _Derek,_ of all people, especially when he was all leather-jacketed and broody and accused of murder, would turn out to be such a good boyfriend-turned-fiance. She wonders if it's because of her. It might be a little bit conceited, but she kind of hopes it is.

God, she's sick of this night, of everybody looking at her like she's nuts, but most of all, she's sick of this fucking dress. She's barely crossed the threshold into her bedroom before she's got it unzipped, cursing and struggling to get the hook and eye fastening at the top undone.

“Uhh, do you need help, Stiles?”

And then she almost has a heart attack.

With a yelp, she turns around to see Scott, of all people, sitting on her bed and looking at her like she's lost her mind, which again, _rude. “_ Next Christmas you're all getting bells. _All of you,”_ she hisses, before frantically trying to zip her dress back up because her and Scott are close, yes, but she doesn't need him to see her naked body. Especially right now, considering she's still healing from Derek's _first_ graduation present.

“ _Stiles, what the fuck is all over your back?”_

Evidently, she is not fast enough.

“Nothing,” Stiles still says anyway, which is fucking dumb of her, because lying to werewolves is impossible.

“I can't believe it,” Scott says, his voice dripping with disdain. “Allison was right. He _is_ hurting you.”

All Stiles can do is stare at him blankly. “Allison said what now? Did you guys share a brain tumor for breakfast?” And yeah, she knows what he's seeing, what he saw: the distinctly Derek-hand-shaped bruises on the back of her hips, those scratches, the claw marks running down her spine, the myriad of hickeys he's sucked all over her thighs and her shoulders. And it looks so much worse than it is, because it doesn't even hurt, not really. It almost feels good, that slight soreness, like the kind you get after a really good workout. In fact, she can't think of a single time where Derek's ever really hurt her, where he held her too tight, bit her too hard, fucked her too aggressively to a point where it no longer felt good. Everything he's ever done has been because she wanted it, because she asked for it. Besides, she bruises like a peach and Scott knows that better than anyone considering all their childhood misadventures. But he won't stop growling and looking at her like she's some kind of criminal or something, and Stiles is suddenly furious. So angry she can hardly see straight.

“Derek doesn't _hurt_ me. He would never hurt me, ” she says, finally managing to do up her dress before crossing her arms defensively.

Scott laughs and it makes her hair stand on end because it's not nice, not in the slightest. “Jesus, Stiles. Fucking _look_ at you. And you actually want to marry that asshole?”

“He's not – okay, he might be an asshole sometimes, but he's _my asshole,_ and I love him,” she says fiercely. “And he loves me.”

“How the hell can you marry someone who would do that to you?”

“He doesn't do anything that I don't – I don't want him to,” she hisses, her cheeks flushing. “Not that it's any of your fucking business. And I'm marrying him because _I_ want to, because I – I want to be his. I like being his...” It's embarrassing to admit to someone who's pretty much her brother, but it's true. Nothing has ever been more true.

“You really are crazy,” Scott says coldly, and Stiles's eyes start to well up with tears despite how much she fights it, blinking furiously, because Scott's never called her crazy like that, like he really means it, and it hurts like getting slapped across the face. “And if you hadn't noticed, Derek doesn't tend to take very good care of his things.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” she snaps, staring right into Scott's goldenrod eyes.

“Haven't you noticed that the people he supposedly cares about always end up dead? He's going to end up getting you killed the same way he got his fam– ”

Stiles doesn't give him a chance to finish that horrible, vile, sickening thought, because she's the one slapping him across the face for real. “ _Get out.”_

ButScott just stares at her, stock-still, holding his cheek in disbelief.

Stupid fucking werewolves, why did they have to be so goddamn hard to move? “Get out, get out, get out!” she screeches, shoving him toward the window before turning on her heel to make her retreat into the bathroom.

“Stiles – Stiles, just wait.”

She feels his hand curl around her wrist and she yanks it back, but he doesn't release her. “ _Let go. You're hurting me.”_

She doesn't hear what he says back to her. Or rather, he doesn't get the chance to say anything, because Stiles hears the bang of her door being thrown open, but all she sees is a fast-moving blur before there's a sound like two boulders hitting each other. Somebody roars, and there's plenty of snarling, and then she sees that it's Derek, and he's got a clawed hand around Scott's throat, shoving him so hard up against Stiles's wall that the window rattles. His eyes are blazing red, chest heaving, his fangs jutting like razors out of his mouth. And Stiles hasn't been scared of Derek in a long, long time, but even she has to admit that right now, he looks kind of scary. And god, this is the last thing she needs, a freaking werewolf battle royale in her bedroom with her dad downstairs.

“Derek, it's fine. _I'm fine._ He didn't mean to. You know he didn't,” Stiles says pleadingly, yanking hard on his sleeve. “Please don't murder my best friend in my bedroom.” For a split second, she honestly thinks he's going to ignore her, but then the growling stops and she sees the claws disappear and his grip on Scott's neck loosens enough that he can slip out from Derek's hold. The look on Derek's face still screams _I'm gonna tear your throat out with my teeth_ , but at least she doesn't have to worry about getting blood stains out of her carpet. Today, at least.

Derek finally speaks, and yeah, he might have cooled it on the wolfing out, but he still sounds positively feral _. “Leave. Now._ ”

Scott gives Stiles one last look that even she doesn't know how to read, before he jumps out the window. God, she really should put some bars on that, she thinks, and then Derek's at her side in an instant, his touch impossibly delicate as he examines her wrist. She thinks he's going to do something dumb like drain her pain, which is entirely unnecessary, so she's quick to say, “I'm fine, I promise.”

Derek cocks his head at her in that annoyingly canine way, and she grumbles, wiping angrily at her tear stained cheeks. “Fine, _physically,_ I'm fine. The other stuff...I'll be okay.”

“Everything all right?” They both look up to see her father leaning against the door frame, looking at them both like he knows for a fact that things aren't all right and he's looking for an explanation. “And did I just see Scott jump off our roof?”

Stiles sighs. “Scott and I had a fight. Derek overreacted a little.” At t that, Derek makes a noise that very clearly states that he thinks the opposite, but Stiles just ignores him. “ It's fine.” If she keeps repeating it, she thinks, eventually it has to be true, right?

“I really should have put bars on your window,” her father says, shaking his head. And wasn't that the truth, Stiles thinks. Derek is still looking at her like he's searching for something in her eyes that he hasn't found yet, and normally she doesn't mind the staring, but right now it just feels stifling. “Go help my dad,” she says, squeezing his hand. “I just want to shower and go to bed.”

Derek doesn't move, and when Stiles gazes up at him questioningly, he answers softly, only loud enough for her to hear. “You told me not to leave you.”

He sounds so earnest that it almost breaks her heart. “You're just going downstairs to do the dishes, Derek. I'm not sending you off to war. Come up when you're done.”

Derek nods, but before he leaves, he brings her wrist to his mouth and presses the gentlest kiss right on the bone. Stiles swallows and looks down, taking a small breath. She doesn't know why the tiny gesture means so much, but it does, it makes Stiles's fingers curl and her knees go a little weak.

He doesn't need to say it, but she hears it like he did, anyway. I love _you._

…

Derek is so focused on Stiles that he actually forgets for a moment that John is there, watching them. When he gets up and turns to the door, he can smell it, the familiar tang of _embarrassment_ , and he sees that the sheriff is staring determinedly at the floor, blushing like he's intruded on something private, intimate. And then he's looking at Derek with that same curious expression that Stiles has sometimes when she's trying to read his mind. Huh, he thinks. Like father, like daughter.

They clean up in silence, which Derek doesn't mind in the slightest. Not like he and Stiles's dad were heavy conversationalists anyway. Stiles was usually the one nervously filling up the space between them all with her babbling. It's not uncomfortable, the quiet, to him anyway, he thinks, elbow deep in soapy dishwater. It's funny sometimes, what triggers a memory: the smell of the soap, the clink of ceramic plates, that damp dishtowel scent. His siblings always used to fight over who had to clean up after dinner, and Derek would pretend to be annoyed and put-upon when they begged him to do it, but really, he didn't mind. In fact, he'd always found it kind of soothing. There was something comforting about it. Something simple – the ability to solve a problem with a clear beginning and end, a finite solution. He's lost in thought, remembering, so he almost doesn't hear it when the sheriff actually speaks to him.

“Do you – “ John clears his throat, “Do you think she'll be okay?”

Derek goes still, shifting his head to the side as he listens to Stiles's movements. “She's in the shower. Not crying anymore. She just sounds mad, so probably.”

The sheriff blinks at him. “You...heard all that? Just now? Just by doing that weird head-tilty thing.”

“Yes.”

“Huh,” he says, stroking his chin. “That's...very unsettling.”

Derek smirks, because that's pretty much exactly what Stiles said the first time.

“You know,” says John, “Scott will come around.”

It's not what Derek's expecting to hear, so he doesn't say anything, doesn't answer. And then Stiles's father is stepping closer, and Derek's can only stare at him, blankly. “I did,” he says, clapping Derek on the shoulder in an unexpectedly paternal show of affection that makes him flinch without meaning to, just because it's so unexpected. John doesn't seem to notice, or if he does, he doesn't care. “Tell Stiles I said good night.”

And Derek can only watch dumbly as he heads toward the stairs. “Okay,” Derek says. “I'll just sleep on the –,” and he motions uncertainly toward the sofa, but Stiles's dad just chuckles and shakes his head.

“Oh, I think we're well past the couch ruse, son.”

And then he's heading upstairs and Derek is left just standing there sort of frozen, wiping his soapy hands on his jeans and wondering what the hell that was. Because... _son?_

Stiles isn't in her room when he finally makes it up the stairs. He follows her scent, sweet but a little sour with all that pent-up anger and frustration, down the long hallway to a room he's never gone in before. The door is shut, and as he stands outside of it, he can hear her heartbeat, always slightly faster than everybody else's, mixed with the tinkling staccato of what sounds like a piano. He turns the handle and it opens with a creak, but he doesn't step inside, not yet.

“Quit being a creeper-wolf and just come in,” Stiles calls, and she doesn't even turn around from where she's sitting on that piano bench, just continues plunking keys in random succession. The room is small, and his eyes water slightly from all the dust swirling in the air, from disuse, he figures. There are boxes lining the walls, and they smell old and musty, too.

“This was my mom's sewing room,” Stiles says. She's in those over-sized pajamas, her hair still wet and curling around her ears, her skin a little flushed, dewy pink from the heat of her shower. She doesn't ask him to sit, but she shifts a little on the bench to make room for him, so he does. “We moved all her stuff in here, you know...after. My dad never comes in here.”

Derek nods, tentatively pressing down on a key right in front of him, wincing a little from the out-of-tune note that follows. “Do you play?”

Stiles laughs, but it's a little sad, and shakes her head. “Only scales, a little _Heart and Soul_. My mom, she tried to teach me, but...ADHD, you know?” She shrugs. “Do you? Play anything, I mean?”

“No. Living in a house full of people with super-hearing didn't really lend itself to the learning curve of mastering a new instrument.”

Stiles gives him a funny look like she doesn't quite understand what he means.

“The summer before high school, I tried to learn the guitar,” he starts.

“For a girl?” Stiles asks, jabbing him in the hip and sticking out her tongue, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively.

Derek grins, sheepish. “Maybe. But I only had it for a week before Laura flipped out and smashed it to pieces.”

“She smashed it?” Stiles asks, eyes wide, and very clearly trying her best not to laugh at him.

“To be fair,” Derek says, “I was absolutely terrible.”

“Well...what did you do? Did you guys fight?”

“No. I dragged her mattress down the stairs and threw it out into the yard every night for a month,” he says solemnly.

Stiles finally does laugh, and the sound fills his chest with a kind of warmth he doesn't remember ever feeling before she came along. She sighs and rests her head against his shoulder, and he just presses his lips to her hair and twines their fingers together. It's a while before anyone speaks again, and when Stiles finally does, her voice is low and thick, like she might start crying but she's trying her hardest not to.

“You know it's not true, right? What Scott said.”

Derek makes a noncommittal noise but doesn't answer right away, because he wants to believe it, can hear that she believes it herself, no skip in her heartbeat that he can detect. “I know.”

“We'll be okay...right, Sourwolf?”

“Yes,” Derek says, turning to look at her. “I think so.”

It's the first time in a long time he's had hope, because of her, so when he says it, it doesn't feel like a lie, either.

The next day, Stiles starts her summer job at the station, so Derek is left idling around the loft, feeling useless, because when she left this morning he could still smell it on her, all that tension and an undercurrent of sadness. He goes for a run, and he doesn't really mean to end up where he does, but it's happened before, when instinct leads him somewhere and his brain has to catch up.

Honestly he's not sure how Scott can work here. The scent of animal and antiseptic makes his eyes water even from the parking lot. And the mountain ash that he knows Deaton's got the place lined with, it's always made him feel like somebody's shoved him into a box that's too small. Or like that scene in that Star Wars movie that Stiles made him watch where they almost get crushed by a trash compactor. Maybe Scott just ignores it, or doesn't care. Like he'd admit it anyway, always so determined to play human. Deaton's not Derek's favorite person, either. Hard to like someone who A) was irritatingly cryptic on a good day, and B) wanted to bang your now-dead mom.

He doesn't have to wait long, leaning against Scott's car, before he sees him stroll out of the building. He stops quite a few feet away, like he's afraid to get closer, and Derek doesn't blame him after last night. Not that he's going to apologize for that, because he's not sorry in the slightest, and if he offered one he's sure even Scott would know he's lying.

“I'm not going to fight you,” Scott says, trying his best to keep his face impassive, but Derek knows false bravado when he sees it.

“I didn't come here to fight,” Derek grunts. The _idiot_ he wants to add goes unspoken. “I came here to talk.” From the way Scott's eyebrows shoot up until they're hidden behind his dumb, floppy hair, he's apparently surprised by this. Derek gets it though. He's never been much of a talker.

“I don't want to talk to you. I don't even like you,” Scott says.

Derek snorts. “The feeling is mutual. But I love Stiles, and so do you. Can't that be enough?”

“I don't know,” Scott says, shrugging. “I don't get how you can love somebody, that you can love Stiles, and do that to her.”

Derek sighs. “You don't get it,” he starts, grimacing, “because it's not something you need.” At that, all Scott does is stare at him, dumbly. Not that it's that different from his normal expression, Derek thinks.

“What's that?” He says, crossing his arms like there's nothing Derek could possibly say to placate him.

“Trust.” Trust that's total, that's complete, that's unconditional. And it's not something he knows how to explain to Scott, because he doesn't think there's any way for him to understand it, not really. How could he understand that being with Stiles felt like she'd ripped her own heart out of her chest and handed it to him, trusting him not to crush it in his fist when they both know how easy it would be, for him to do it.

“Stiles used to trust me. She used to need me,” Scott says after a while, and Derek thinks he sounds sad. He doesn't say anything, and they just stand there, until Scott says softly, fists clenched, “Why did it have to be her? Why'd you pick her.?”

There's no hesitation in his voice when Derek answers. “It was always going to be her.” He says it like it's obvious, because to him, it is. There was never any choice for him, not really. There isn't anything left to say, so Derek shoves his hands in his pockets and starts to walk away. He's across the parking lot, about to disappear into the trees, when he hears him, not yelling, because he doesn't have to when Derek can hear him just fine anyway.

“If you hurt her, for real... I'll kill you.”

Derek doesn't bother turning around. “If I hurt her for real, I'll let you.”

After his talk with Scott, he has to run for a long time afterward, if only to clear his head and his body of some of that tension he's held onto since last night. When he became an alpha, it had shocked him, how different he'd felt. The Hale alphas had always evolved to the full shift—Derek just had never thought it'd be something he'd ever have to experience. He'd been so surprised how much harder it was to fight the urge to shift completely, compared to when he was just a beta. The power felt like a hundred bees buzzing under his skin, and remembers for weeks he had to keep cracking his shoulders and his neck to stop the bones of his spine from rippling without meaning to. Now, the wolf is just a second skin he wears sometimes that feels as natural as a part of his body, his hands, his feet.

By the time he gets back to the loft, it's almost midnight. Stiles is here, and he can hear that she's asleep from her quiet breathing, the slow, steady thump of her heart. The scent of her in his place is so thick it feels like smoke in the air. Derek opens the door to his bedroom, and he sees her there, her milk-white skin glowing against the dark blue of his sheets. He could probably stand here and watch her forever, but the thought occurs to him that he doesn't have to. He can touch.

Stiles doesn't stir at first when he crawls in next to her, and when he noses at the back of her neck, he can almost taste it, her arousal, and he knows _exactly_ what she was doing before she fell asleep. It makes that familiar lick of heat flare in his chest.

“Mmph, _sweaty,_ ” Stiles grumbles, making a face but still keeping her eyes closed like she's pretending to sleep. Derek huffs a laugh into her throat and starts to pull away, but Stiles whines. “Didn't mean _leave_.”

“I went for a run,” he whispers, and, after a beat he adds, “I also talked to Scott.”

Stiles shoots straight up out of the bed, the pretense of sleep obviously out the window. “You didn't kill him did you? I figured one of these days, I'd have to help you hide a body, but I didn't want the first one to be my best friend.”

Before she can keep babbling, Derek covers her mouth with his hand. “ _Shh._ We just talked.”

Stiles's eyes go wide. “You _talked?”_ she says, obviously muffled against his palm.

Derek nods. “It'll be okay, I think,” he says, slowly removing his hand now that he's sure she's not going to word vomit. She's quiet for a minute, but then, before Derek even realizes what's happening, she's grabbing his face and kissing him fiercely. “You did that for me.” It's not a question, because she's got to know, of course he did.

“I'd do anything for you,” he says, when he finally pulls away so they can both catch their breath. It's not said like some kind of declaration, but because it's just true. Indisputable fact. It's not like Derek's great at feelings or anything, but he's trying. He tries. For her. “Remember what you said to me that night, on my birthday?”

Stiles eyes are shining like stars in the moonlight streaming through the curtains. “Which thing? There was a lot,” she murmurs.

“You said you belonged to me,” Derek whispers, cradling her cheek in his hand, swiping his thumb over the arch of her cheekbone. “i just need you to know that I belong to you too.”

He's not expecting her to laugh, but she does. Should he be surprised? It's Stiles. “I know that, stupid. Did you just figure that out?”

…

She doesn't mean to laugh at him, but god, the way he's looking at her, it's as heart wrenching as it is adorable. Stiles doesn't want to give him any reason to doubt himself, so she's quick to reach for him, nuzzling into his throat and pressing her lips to that place under his jaw that always gets him trembling

“No,” Derek finally says, half gasping, half laughing against her mouth. “But I'm sorry I didn't say it sooner.”

She grins against his pulse point, raking her nails down his chest hard enough that she can feel him flinch. “I know how you can make it up to me.” Derek's heart is thundering so loudly, even she can hear it. “ _I wanna come.”_

“Oh, really?” Derek says, his voice that low rumble that always makes her feel hot, sets her skin tingling. He leans in close, his teeth grazing her ear, and she shudders. “Smells like you already took care of that before I got here. Do you think you deserve to come again? You didn't wait for me.”

Stiles was so sure she would have the upper hand this time, but _damn those werewolf senses._ “I tried to. You were late,” she whines. Maybe if she sounds sorry enough, he'll take pity on her. “I tried to be good.” But they'd been interrupted so many times, and she's been spoiled by so much sex lately that when she has to wait...well, she's never been good at waiting for anything, okay? Let alone orgasms.

_“Doesn't sound like something a good girl would do.”_

The minute he says that, all growly and dripping with sex, she knows there's no way she's getting what she wants that easily. He's going to make her work for it, and the realization both frustrates and excites her. She can feel want starting to prickle in her lower belly, and she can't help it, the way she squeezes her thighs together already seeking some kind of release she knows she's not going to get. Not until he decides she's earned it.

“Please?” she whispers, even though it's pointless. It can't hurt to try, right?

Derek's eyes are like two lamps in the dark, his teeth glinting white. “Show me what I missed, and maybe I'll give it to you.”

Show him... _oh._ Stiles's eyes go wide. “You want me to – “

She knows if she really wanted to, she could say no. Derek would give her what she wanted if she asked, really asked for it. But there's something so hot and dirty about it, the idea of him watching her, that makes her cunt pulse and ache. Makes her somehow feel even needier.

Stiles swears Derek doesn't even blink when she moves, lays back against the pillows and spreads her legs. She's wearing one of his shirts and her panties, and it's with trembling fingers she starts to pull them down. She's not expecting it when Derek stops her, his huge hand curling around her wrist. She shouldn't be so surprised when he hooks his claws in the fabric and shreds them.

“ _Asshole_ ,” she grits between clenched teeth. She has the fleeting thought that she should really start charging him for the pairs he ruins, but she doesn't get the chance to say so. She can't do anything but squeal, because Derek snarls and brings his palm down on her inner thigh, hard enough to sting, but not hard enough to bruise.

“ _Good girls watch their mouth,”_ he growls.

That slight jolt of pain goes straight to her clit, and she bucks her hips without meaning to. _Fuck_ is what she wants to say, but she bites her lip so the word doesn't slip out. She's already breathing so hard and she hasn't even touched herself yet. She's shaking as she trails her hand over her breasts, down her stomach, over the mound between her thighs, but before she reaches her destination, Derek grabs her again. _“Wait_.” And then he's swirling his tongue around her fingers and all she can do is moan breathlessly. He's going to kill her. Her heart's going to give out before she even starts, jesus christ.

“Go ahead,” Derek says hoarsely, sitting back on his heels. When she finally spreads her lower lips, she's shocked how wet she is already. Her eyelids flutter shut and she hisses when she brushes the heel of her palm over her clit, just teasing , playing in her own folds. The orgasms she gives herself are usually half as intense as the ones he gives her. She wonders if that will be the case this time. It feels different, so different, with the weight of his gaze, his eyes raking shamelessly over her body.

“Baby, you look so fucking sexy,” Derek pants. And she's shocked, honestly, how _broken_ he sounds already, that she has to open her eyes to look at him. The sight of him just makes her moan, because he's so beautiful, she thinks, but it's nothing compared to the way he's looking at her right now. Like he wants to eat her and kiss her and fuck her all at once. Her tongue comes out to wet her lips and she can see Derek's pupils dilate even from here.

His fingers are longer than hers, and the angle isn't as good, but her breath still hitches in her throat when she finally breaches herself with one finger, just pressing in. Derek's doing that thing, that low continuous growl he does when he starts getting worked up. She wonders if he'll touch himself too, while he watches. The thought sends another spark of pleasure shooting up her spine, and she arches off the bed, groaning. She never thought she'd be one to wax poetic about a dick, but Derek's is _nice –_ long and thick and he always feels so good inside her. God, she wants him, she wants him so fucking bad.

“I heard you once,” Derek says in the gravelly voice of the wolf. She's not sure exactly what he's talking about, but his voice, it's practically pornographic. “Before, when I used to just sleep in your bedroom. I went to your window, and I heard you. I could _smell_ you. You were so fucking wet, and you said my name. I almost came in my pants like a fucking teenager.”

Stiles keens. God, the thought of him watching her even back then, _fuck. “_ You should have come in,” she whimpers, jerking her hips when she adds a second finger, rubbing at her clit again.

“You were seventeen,” Derek says, matter-of-fact. “I couldn't touch you.”

“I would have let you,” she gasps. God, she would have. She would have let him do whatever he wanted to her. Even back then. Derek groans, and she watches, her mouth practically watering when she sees him free his cock from his pants, his head thrown back as he pumps it in his fist. She's so enthralled, watching him, that she doesn't realize that her own hand has stilled until... _smack_. His big hand comes down hard on her other thigh and she cries out, her spine bowing clear off the bed.

“ _Did I say you could stop?_ ” Stiles can see the glint of fang behind his lip and it sets her whole body trembling again. It feels like electricity is flooding her nerves, firing bolts through her entire body, and she thinks it just might kill her. She really might die before she ever gets to come.

“Please, Derek,” she gasps. “ _Fuck me_.” If she sounds desperate enough, maybe he'll be merciful.

“Not yet.” And god, are there two words she hates more in the English language? She can't think of any right now because he's turned her into nothing more than an animal of pure and rabid need. She's so slick, her folds so wet and so slippery that it's getting harder to even keep a hand on herself. She can feel beads of perspiration trailing down her chest. She wonders if the room is as hot as she is right now. Feels like she might just burn up right here in his bed.

“You're so close, baby,” Derek whispers, and she lets out an airy cry because he's right, she is. She's _right there_ , and it just builds, keeps building – higher, higher, higher, until she feels it crest, and she spasms around her own fingers. She's half out of her mind from everything that came before that the pleasure rocks through her so completely that she doesn't notice that he's moved, that he's hovering over her, until the shaking slows and she opens her eyes and sees only red. Only him.

When he finally puts his hands on her, holds her quaking thighs apart, Stiles is so sensitive that her first instinct is to try and get away, even though it's the last thing she actually wants. Derek laughs though, throatily, as he leans down to lick at the sweat pooled in her collarbone. She feels his cock, hard and pulsing against her cunt. He doesn't even give her a minute to rest, to come down, before he slams into her and she shrieks, her legs locking around his waist automatically as he fucks her through the remains of her orgasm.

It's too much, but it feels so fucking good, she doesn't care. Derek growls and pulls out just a little before slamming back into her. All she can do is writhe under him, rising to meet his every thrust as he pounds into her, seemingly without end.

“Not going to last,” he gasps, crushing his mouth against hers, sucking at her tongue, her bottom lip before pulling away.

Stiles digs her nails into his back. “ _Come,”_ she begs . “Want you to – wanna feel it.” Then she sinks her teeth into the meat of his shoulder and that's it. Then he's the one shuddering and shaking on top of her, snarling her name as he spills inside of her. She never thought it would feel this good, being _filled,_ being owned completely.

And Stiles, she doesn't feel anything close to powerless like this. How could she, when she could reduce a man like Derek to a trembling mess?

She could do it, bring Derek to his knees, if she wanted, and the thought both thrills and terrifies her.

…

Derek likes the after part of sex almost as much as he likes the act itself, when they're both sated, a tangle of limbs, languid and heavy. There's that small window of time before Stiles's brain starts working again where she's quiet, relaxed in a way she never is when they aren't like this. If she's quiet, if she doesn't talk, he knows he's done an especially good job.

She hasn't said anything yet. Just curled into his lap, the rumpled sheet pulled up around her. He's already cleaned her up, gotten her a glass of water that he watched her guzzle down greedily before collapsing in his arms.

He's the one that speaks first, combing through those messy strands of brown and gold as she rests against his chest. “I'd follow you anywhere, you know.”

Stiles lifts her head, her eyes flickering open as she looks at him, confused. “I'm not going anywhere.”

Derek shakes his head. “I mean, if you wanted to move. Go to school somewhere else.”

“But Beacon Hills is your home.”

Derek kisses her softly. “Not anymore.” Because home wasn't a place anymore. Not really.

Stiles blushes. He knows she's okay with her plan. She's told him a million times. She wasn't ready to leave her father, and _private universities are a scam, Derek._

 _“_ We could go anywhere you wanted. Money isn't a problem.”

Stiles rolls her eyes. “I'm _fine_. Community college is fine. If I want to transfer later, I can. I don't know what I want to do yet, anyway. Besides, that's your money.”

“I hate to tell you this, baby. But according to California State law, you will soon own half of it.”

She makes a face and pokes him in the ribs. “Where would you want to go?”

He hasn't thought about it much beyond the abstract. “Somewhere with seasons, probably.”

Stiles laughs. “We could go to New York.”

This time it's Derek making the face. It wasn't a place where he had the fondest memories. Six years hiding in boltholes with fringe packs he couldn't give less of a shit about. Shitty apartments in even shittier neighborhoods, anything to stay off the grid. “It's loud and dirty and there are too many people.”

“Okay, grandpa,” Stiles says, kissing him on the cheek. “I'll drop you off at the home, and I'll go to New York City. I'll pick you up when I'm done and we can go somewhere else.”

“Maine is nice,” Derek hums, sliding his palms up her stomach, her breasts, his thumb swiping lazily over one of her nipples, feeling satisfied when it pebbles under his touch. She gasps and arches into him, but it's a drowsy sort of movement with no real heat to it, yet.

“You could get a real job,” she says, voice a little shakier. “A cop, maybe.”

Derek shakes his head, pinches her waist hard enough to make her squeal. “I've been shot too many times to ever want to be in law enforcement.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. “You can be...a lumberjack then. Since you like those trees so much.”

She can't see it, but he arches an eyebrow. “You went from cop straight to lumberjack?”

“You look good in plaid,” she says, grinning.

“And what exactly will you be doing while I'm off destroying forests?”

Stiles turns around so she's straddling his hips and kisses his jaw with a tenderness that makes his heart skip. “Teaching, or getting my PhD, maybe being a brilliant detective. Also raising our children.”

Apparently he's not the only one who's been thinking about that. “And how many kids do we have in this fantasy?”

She's busy sucking a mark that won't stay into his throat, so it's a minute before she answers. “At least three. My limit is seven though. Five collective years of pregnancy is enough. The human body can only take so much.”

Derek would laugh, but there's a part of him that finds the whole thing really unfunny. Instead, it just stokes that primal, biological instinct of the wolf that makes him want to turn her over and just fuck her again. Judging from the smug look on her face, the way her scent turns that spicy-sweet, she knows it. She planned it.

“Give me five more minutes,” she says, her voice husky with lust and far too tempting than should be humanly possible. “Then we can start practicing.”

Derek doesn't say anything else, but Stiles doesn't seem to mind.

There is no more talking after that.

**Author's Note:**

> Stiles's dress, if anyone cares to see what I was visualizing. 
> 
> https://www.lulus.com/images/product/xlarge/4553810_884622.jpg?w=500


End file.
